


Black and White Lies

by Corruptimles (Notatree)



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notatree/pseuds/Corruptimles
Summary: Henry frees everyone he could from the Studio, and Sammy is overjoyed at the prospect of freedom, of a second chance at life, before being reminded how much he hates liars
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence & Henry Stein, Sammy Lawrence/Henry Stein (implied)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my "Team Sillyvision" AU, can be read standalone (more notes at the end)

Who knew that standing soaked through in the rain could feel so good? There was so much noise, between the rain and the scattered conversations of the crowd around him, it should be intolerable. The way the borrowed cardigan was drenched down to his bones should've been uncomfortable, should've reminded him of when his skin melted into ink and threatened to fuse his clothes. His hair was a mess, with the long blond strands falling out of the tie and sticking to his face, and he felt so utterly battered up and ready to just drop. All in all, he just looked awful. 

But by God, did the rain feel so good. It felt so refreshing. 

Sammy stared down at the clear run-off, transparent, not stained black, feeling the cleanest and lightest he'd ever been in the past thirty odd years. Everything was dulled in the rain; grey cement and red-brown brick, all with a blurry halo of droplets that he never thought would be so captivating. It was all such a sight for his poor old eyes. 

He felt himself huff a short laugh, almost in disbelief, looking around at all the others bustling about in the light downpour; at Grant supporting Norman’s walk before Sammy could offer, at Jack who gave him a wave mid-conversation with a band member he couldn't recognize, and at Allison and Thomas organizing and taking care of all the lost and confused. He heard Shawn, not caring at others staring at him hollering about something or other, waving that doll around and dragging Wally around, just overjoyed they were out of there. More people were huddled together, crying in relief or basking in the outside world just like Sammy was. 

They really escaped, didn't they? They really did make it out of the Studio. 

Sammy could actually feel how hard he must've been grinning then. Grinning with his real face, in the real world. No doubt the others would be ready to call him out on such an uncharacteristic expression, but damn it if he didn't have a reason to be happy! They finally got out, Joey was finally gone. They finally have another chance at life and he has Henry to thank for being the patient, kind man he was. Sammy held the cardigan a little closer to his chest. He still needed to tell him. They had a deal, after all. 

At last, Sammy looked down to find Bendy. The little living toon Henry had created, that helped put an end to the Machine’s nonsense. Usually the kid was glued to either Henry’s or Norman’s side but he was standing alone, a few paces behind the musician. 

Bendy wasn't smiling. 

The little demon was turned away from the others, looking positively kicked as his ink was pouring over his face. Sammy almost worried that it was caused by the rain. He never thought to ask Henry if he was worried how Bendy would live in the outside world being what he was.

Wait. 

Where was…?

Sammy hesitantly followed Bendy’s line of sight back to the front door of Joey Drew Studios. Up those short steps and just past the threshold was Henry. The old man stood lazily, one hand against the door. Black, tired eyes seemed to scan the crowds of people he had helped break free, smiling in the subtle way he does. In that small, almost sad way he does. Then Henry accidentally made eye contact with Sammy. And, oh, Sammy did not miss the flash of what could only have been guilt on his face when he realized. 

Henry never took a step outside the studio. 

“Henry.” Sammy hissed in realization. His grin had dropped in shock. 

Norman and Grant silently watched the musician go still from their place on the curb. Their discussion had long ended. Grant looked away sadly. Norman kept his hands in his pockets, passive. 

“You didn't…”

Henry’s hand slipped from the door and he faced Sammy with a sincere sadness. He hoped it was regret. Sammy could see his mouth move and shape words that were drowned away by the puttering rain and his growing anger. 

“You didn't!” His voice cracked in a plea, hoping that he would be corrected, that he was misunderstanding.

Henry said he wouldn't. He promised. Henry _promised_ him. They were supposed to get out _together_. Back at that safehouse, Sammy refused Henry’s idiotic, desperate idea of self-sacrifice, and he promised. He looked at Sammy as he came back from the machine, smiling, and saying they were going to be okay. Did he say ‘they’ not ‘we’? No, no, they had a deal! 

Sammy received no verbal answer to his questions. Instead, he felt something in himself crack when Henry took a step back, further into the studio, away from him. Sickening pitch began to pool, creating a circle, crawling up his skin, and covering Henry as the old man just seemed to let it happen. 

_“NO!”_ Sammy cried over the rainshower, breaking into a sprint.

Even through the slick of rain and rising puddles, Sammy stomped heavily towards the Studio’s threshold. The stone steps were wet and almost had the man slip on the way up. He gripped the rails with a ferality that everybody else could almost feel with his rage. Sammy didn't care about everybody else though. He could only hear his heart pounding in his ears and the creaking of the door beginning to close. 

“HENRY!”

Henry never broke eye contact as his body began to melt into that cursed inky dark, giving Sammy one last small smile before the other could reach him. 

“YOU _LIAR!!_ ” 

And then it all gave away to black. The door closed shut with finality. 

Sammy slammed against the deceiving wooden door and screamed. He started to beat it with his fists, uncaring for the painful red they became as he received no answer. The door wouldn't budge. 

“YOU LIED TO ME! YOU SAID YOU’D FIND ANOTHER WAY! YOU LIED!” He continued to yell, as if Henry was still on the other side. Of course he was. There was nowhere else he could go now. And that was his own damn fault. 

“HENRY!!” 

His rage and desperation cut through the rain and silenced the crowds. They watched as the man try to break through an impossible door, straining his voice. There wasn't anything anyone could do for him but look away.   
  


Norman finally broke his gaze when Sammy began to cry. The rain had stopped and the crowd began to thin, directed away by the Connor couple. Allison threw a glance over her shoulder before needing to attend to the others. Jack had joined Norman and Grant by the curb, no doubt thinking of how he could help his friend, if he could. 

The old musician still scowled at the door but the exhaustion and rain had drained away at him. He was left slumped against the wood, knocking weakly for nothing. 

Norman ‘tch’d for a second, pinched at his nose and schooled his expression back into indifference. The former projectionist started to push himself up from the curb with purpose. Grant quick to his side to help him hobble to the short staircase where Sammy and Bendy stayed. 

Bendy sat quietly on the last step, frowning at the puddle at his feet. His runny ink had reached the point where it covered his face, leaving only those golden tears to see. The toon was definitely upset in his own way, but was trying to be quiet about it while Sammy had fumed. Unfortunately, Norman wasn't in position to pick the kid up and comfort him this time so he nudged Grant to do so. Norman kept his balance using the stair rails and watched Bendy give him a quick sad and lost expression before being carried away by the hesitant accountant. Norman sighed silently and turned back to Sammy. 

The man was a mess. Almost all his hair had slipped from the tie and stuck to his face and clothes, creating a veil in his grief. His hands were a terrible shade of red that no doubt stung like Hell. Norman never thought he'd ever see the old high-strung music director in such a sorry state. He wished he could've found it funny. It really wasn't. 

And he definitely felt awful for what he was about to do. But he had to. He had his own deal. 

“Sammy,” Norman called out. 

He received a rather pitiful glare in response. 

“We can't stay here, Sammy. For obvious reasons.”

A sardonic laugh. Still not an answer. And he still won't leave the door. 

Norman sighed and switched hands on the rail. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled yellowing scrap paper and a keychain.

Sammy perked up at the jingle of keys and stared wide eyed at Norman’s hand. He took in the sight of what seemed to be a car key, another key, and a familiar Swiss Army knife. 

Norman hadn't finished unfolding the paper when Sammy finally spoke. 

“Those are… Those are Henry’s.”

His voice cracked but Norman heard the sharp tone of accusation. He waved the paper out to finish unfurling it and revealed an address messily written in ink. Sammy knew who wrote it. 

“Sammy, we’re going to leave. It's what he would have w-”

_“You knew.”_

Norman faltered. He expected this but he didn't prepare how to dispel the type of fury he heard in those two words.

“Henry,” Norman carefully emphasized, “told us to be safe, and live. We're. Leaving.”

“No.” 

“Sammy, it's what Henry--”

“He told you.”

“No, he…” Norman hated to admit that he was beginning to lose his cool. “I found out. And then he told me. He gave me his keys and address. For _us_. So calm down and-.“ 

Sammy laughed. A sad, terrifying laugh.

“Of course YOU KNEW! Of course YOU found out and of course HE told YOU!”

The musician grasped at the railing and shakily pulled himself up. His expression was a fuming disbelief, eyes skewed and grin strained. 

“And he trusts you with his keys, and you just go and accept it like he DIDN’T just trap himself in that godforsaken studio! And then you tell me I need to calm down?!” 

Each word spat more venom than the last before Sammy cried out one more outburst. 

“He LIED to me! And so did YOU!” 

Norman barely blinked before Sammy threw himself at him. The other’s weight slammed against the projectionist’s shoulder, knocking him painfully into the iron railing and losing balance. Panic set in as Norman’s lower back stung and he found himself fumbling to get up with his one leg, taking gulps of air in brief panic. He couldn't get up- He needed to get out, he needed to keep moving-- 

Something familiar hugged around his arm, snapping him back to the present. Norman blinked rapidly and cleared away his vision. Bendy had rushed to his side when he crumpled onto the pavement, holding up his glasses. _This isn’t the flooded levels,_ he reassured himself. _No longer an ink amalgam. Calm down._

Norman caught sight of Sammy breathing heavily on the ground beside him, laid uncomfortably on his side. He wasn't attacking. 

From the looks of it, the musician ended up slipping off that final step and hitting the cold ground hard. He seemed to realize his actions just in time too. Sammy just looked at him, eyes wide and face flushed in tears, before Norman was able to read the silent apologies spilling off his lips. Norman never would have expected to see such a sight, and wished he didn’t have to. 

Thomas returned from watching this unfold from the sidelines, helping lift Sammy up to sit against the wall. Jack jogged up after things settled and fretted over what was likely a bad concussion for Sammy. Allison was quick to clean and bandage the wound the rough asphalt gave him before tending to Norman as well. Sammy remained quiet for all this, utterly exhausted physically and emotionally. He could barely face the others without looking as haunted as he did.

Norman picked up the keys and paper he had dropped into the wet ground in the scuffle. A slight sense of relief came from seeing it was still legible. He thought about the brief panic just now and how his body locked up. Sammy wasn't going to kill him now, obviously, but this whole ordeal really shows that they really had a lot to heal from. 

He looked at Sammy leaning against Jack, the most lost he’s ever been, and then at the door of Joey Drew Studios one last time. 

At least they were given this chance. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you hate liars, but you always try so hard to lie to yourself

"Alright Henry," Sammy took a shaky breath and stepped through the threshold, hearing the creaky studio doors shut behind him. "I'm here…”

What was he doing? Months of refusing to go near this cursed place, of ignoring Norman and Bendy's reassurances of visiting _him_... and somehow here he was. He couldn't even remember how he got here. 

The studio was... dark. Sammy stopped at the end of the entrance hall and glanced around. Everything was basically the same as they left it, dreary and desolate, yet something felt off. Something felt wrong. Maybe that was how it was always like here since the rupture but Sammy felt like he was being held up, tense and anticipating. He felt ready to both scram and like he'd be stopped in his tracks if he tried. All the studio's lights seemed to have been turned off, with the only thing illuminating the entrance hall being that tilted projector. Its low clicking was also the only noise he could hear aside from that dreadful dripping from somewhere further away. It was too quiet otherwise; no sign of life. But he knew there had to be at least one soul. 

Where was-... 

Sammy shook his head and glared down at himself. He could say the guy's name, it shouldn't be that hard! It's just a name! He literally said it a minute ago, too. Where could he find H-... that old man?

_Damn it, Sammy._

He roughly ran a hand through his hair in frustration, hearing a ghost of a chide about not hurting himself when he gets like this. The art department makes sense, right? Sammy could look there first. 

Even with the dim lighting, Sammy vaguely knew the direction to the art department and turned left. If he remembered correctly, the studio used to be much smaller, and there wasn’t that much of an art department. There were desks just scattered everywhere until they built the new rooms. Maybe Sammy won’t even find him where he thought. 

His shoes clacking against the old wood floor gave away his uncertain steps, making him uncomfortably aware of where he was and how he was taking it. He straightened up his posture and steadied his stride in practiced poise. He always walked like this when going through the busy studio, keeping others from bothering him. It helped him feel a bit more confident. 

At least, until soft clacks suddenly became splashes. 

Not too far into the corridor was flooded, albeit shallow enough not to reach his ankles. Sammy hissed and stiffened at the noise and the coldness, bracing himself. It was not so much that he hated his shoes getting messed up that it was the unpleasantly familiar experiences that came with. Memories of bursting glass and shouting voices flashed in his mind. 

But then a low, calming voice echoed at the end of the corridor. 

Sammy suddenly wanted to leave. He didn't want to face him. He was right there and an unbelievable amount of dread filled the old musician’s lungs. He was cold, tired, and could easily turn around now and never come back. Norman and Bendy can yell at him later, Sammy didn’t care; he could just forget all about this, about him. 

But the memory of a door closing in front of him, before his hands could stop it.

Sammy started walking forward. 

The memory of desperately slamming against the door, the last time he saw his face. 

He was running now, the splashing ink as loud as his beating heart in his ears. The corridor was feeling impossibly long, impossibly dark. But he could still hear his voice. What was the last thing Henry said to him? What was the last face Henry gave to him? Sammy couldn't let those really be the last things he has of Henry, if he was right there, so close. 

The moment the tunnel ended, opening to a vast void of a room, it was deathly silent. Sammy slowly approached what he thought was the centre of the room. A light with no source illuminated an old drafting table and chair, covered with drawings collecting dust. The ink ripples circled around it like a stage, reflecting the light, before eventually leading to nowhere.

The rickety chair was empty.

Sammy suddenly felt choked up. That wasn't right. He had heard his voice, he was right there. Sammy wanted to call out to the empty room, knowing his voice was brittle, and fearing there won't be an answer. He couldn't. But he didn’t feel like leaving.

The sound of rustling paper came from behind him, jolting the old musician to whip around with wide eyes. A figure sat in the ink, surrounded by more papers and cels, facing away from him. Sammy felt his heart in his throat at recognizing the messy grey hair and familiar cardigan. He took a step closer, the following splash unbearably loud as the other figure stayed silent. He had been talking before, why was he quiet now? Was it because of Sammy? 

But then, who was Henry talking to? 

The closer Sammy got, the more he could see the ink crawling up Henry's clothes, staining them pitch black. The man was more drenched than ever from sitting in the ink like that. Was he not cold? Or maybe he doesn’t feel it anymore, after surrendering to that cursed machine. Sammy remembered those cold years he experienced himself. He wanted to reach out, now feeling the regret of abandoning Henry start weighing on him, overwhelming. 

Except Henry had abandoned him first. 

Sammy took a step back. Henry looked up. 

What could he even say here? Talk about how damn angry he was? Or demand reasons for why Henry had to lie to him? Or cry about how much he had missed Henry despite it? Sammy felt his face skew in stress and took a clenched breath. He had to say _something_ , while Henry was right there. He looked at Henry head on as the other started turning around.

"Henry-?"

He couldn't finish. 

Henry was now facing him directly, looking up at Sammy with... nothing. His face was- There wasn't- There was nothing there. It was ink, all of it was ink. Black steadily poured down like a sick sludge, dripping off of Henry's chin as he sat so unnaturally still, vacant. 

Sammy stopped breathing. That wasn't right. That wasn't what Henry looked like. Henry had a face before, a normal face! He was supposed to look like- His eyes were- black? Blue? What colour were his eyes? Sammy took a step back, unable to tear his gaze away from what was facing him. Henry’s nose and mouth- what were they like? He wore glasses? Or didn't he? Why couldn’t he think?

No, no, Sammy remembered what Henry looked like- he was sure he did! This was ridiculous. His head felt like it was filled with voices, of his own, of the Well’s, overlapping, pounding. It wasn't that long ago- Was it that long? Sammy couldn’t remember how long it had been and started pulling at his hair in panic.

Henry- no, _whatever_ that was, started reaching out.

That _wasn't_ Henry. Was it Henry? After all this time, was it-

The steady drip of ink down Henry's chin suddenly increased into a downpour, painting his clothes black, slowly flooding the room more. Sammy weakly shrieked, falling back and freezing there. He couldn't move, couldn’t think. The sound of rushing ink and the beating of the machine overwhelmed the room, making it feel like a countdown for Sammy to do something, anything. 

All at once, tar-black, gangly arms started to emerge from the ink, writhing and wailing, making Sammy flinch back. But they didn't grab at him. He watched, stunned, as they started to wrap around Henry, dragging him down to drown with them. 

A memory of a closing door. 

"Wait- Wait, no!" Sammy couldn't leave him again, not when he had been finally reaching back. 

He lunged towards the mass of arms, coming just short of it when it seemed like the ink at his feet was suddenly like molasses. His foot dragged, tripping him to forward and painfully onto his elbows. Ink had splashed up into his eyes and mouth, causing him to cough violently. He hastily wiped the ink from his eyes before glaring at the scene before him. He had to keep moving, keep reaching. 

At this point, Sammy could only see Henry's head and arm, the rest already pulled under. It was happening too fast, they were still drowning him. Sammy practically crawled and clawed through the ink but it wasn't going to be enough. 

The machine's beat became louder, syncing with his hurting heart. More arms burst through the ink, now holding him down, making him watch. 

No, not again! He's right there! _Henry's right there!_

“Henry!”

Sammy desperately thrust out his arm one more time as he watched Henry go under, hearing the door close once more. 

Sammy fell onto the living room floor with a heavy thud, blankets tangling his legs, and heart thundering in his ears. He laid there, chest heaving, and tears falling. The old grandfather clock ticked patiently over him and the crackling of the weakening fireplace drowned into white noise. Norman was soon over Sammy, calling out his name as the musician continued to sob heavily, hand closing in on nothing.   
  


"They're gettin’ worse,” was what Norman used to start off what was already an exhausting conversation. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sammy tried to shoot down. 

Sammy’s face pinched when he heard Norman scoff in response. He still would rather glare down at his cold tea or the fireplace than meet the other’s eyes. He could hear the hurried closing of cupboards as Grant cleaned up in the kitchen nearby before fleeing to who knows where; just far away from Sammy and Norman. Sammy couldn't blame the man. The tension between the two of them had been brewing over the past few months since escaping the studio and occupying Henry’s home.

“Y’know I can't help but wonder what yer mind conjured up to leave you in such a sorry state”. Norman coughed quietly.

The former projectionist was careful in his intonation, sounding almost genuinely curious. But it still felt mocking. It always had to be. The long beat of silence that followed and glance was also trying to prompt Sammy to respond, maybe even explain. 

_As if._ Norman was the last person Sammy wanted to confide in, and the psychoanalyzing didn't help him in the slightest. Whether he liked it or not, Norman was usually right and it pissed Sammy off to no end. Nosy bastard. Sammy continued to look around the living room instead of at Norman, eyes falling towards the fireplace mantle again. Apparently this was a mistake. 

“And there it is.”

“What?” Sammy snapped back. 

Norman roughly cleared his throat and looked at him with a passive expression before putting his own mug down between them. He grabbed his crutches from arm rest and stood up from the recliner. Sammy glared away again when he heard Norman begin coughing. He almost forgot that Norman seemed to get sick very on and off. Not that it was any of his business.

"Y’know, when we first moved in here, you'd barely even look at any photographs of him,” the older man started, going over to the mantle and getting in Sammy’s peripheral. Norman picked up one of the frames that Sammy didn’t realize he had been focusing on. It held a photo of a group of employees for what looked like a newspaper firm, with a familiar old face near the front. 

“Now you seem like you can’t stop starin’ at em,” Norman laughed, as if he wasn’t cutting into Sammy with each word. “Like you’re gonna forget what Henry even looked like.”

Sammy’s eyes widened, feeling like the rug was pulled from under him. He could almost see it again, the sight of an ink filled void staring through him, replacing the soft tired eyes in the photograph. He gripped the mug tight enough that he could almost break the ceramic if he hadn’t decided to put it down instead. He didn’t want to break it. Even if Norman stared at him again so passively, emotions hidden, as if none of this really mattered to him. If Norman was at all concerned for how Sammy felt, it could’ve fooled him. 

Standing up, Sammy practically hissed his response through gritted teeth. 

“I’m leaving.”

Sammy turned to exit the living room, feeling finished with this conversation- no, _interrogation-_ before it even started. 

“To visit Henry?” Norman jokingly called out at him. 

Sammy felt a twitch. Did... Did he think this was funny? Sammy didn’t notice how tightly he clenched his fists until his nails were digging in and hurting. He forced himself to open his hands, still tense, and ran them over his face in an attempt to control himself.

“Actually-,” he heard Norman cut himself off. Sammy bit down to wait to see if the older man was going to continue with something worth it. Sammy pivoted on his heel to face Norman who was now looking at him with a furrowed brow. Dark hands ran absently over the photo frame he seemed to debate something in his head. Norman continued in a lower tone, almost sounding actually regretful. 

“I’m sorry.”

Sammy was taken aback. 

“You’re... sorry?” Sammy couldn’t believe this. He wanted none of this one-man good cop, bad cop. He took one threatening step that Norman narrowed on before stopping again to take a shaky breath. 

“After _months_ of jeering at me, and straight up antagonizing me, you’re _sorry?”_

Norman didn't back down at Sammy’s vitriol but he seemed to let himself show the tiredness, shoulders slacking. “Why do you have to be so stubborn about this!? You know Henry, you know why he did what he did.” 

“And why are you treating it so lightly!”

“You're taking it too personally.” 

"He told you! You knew and stopped nothing! No, it’s not like I’m the only one he lied to and hurt! He's just the same as-"

Sammy was suddenly shut up by a forceful clack of the picture frame against the mantle. The taller man jutted an accusing finger at Sammy, the most visibly angry that he's ever seen him. 

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Lawrence! Don't you dare!"

Sammy twitched of irritation in response, straightening up in defiance. 

"You don't know what I was going to say.” 

"You were ‘bout to say Henry is 'just the same as Joey', which you know _isn't true._ " Norman made a mock of Sammy’s voice, only irritating him further.. "You're just saying it to justify being angry at him!"

"That is not true!" It was absolutely true. “I just-! I hate him for doing this! I hate Henry!” He didn't. 

_Ba-da-th-thud!_

The sudden sound of multiple objects hitting the ground drew both men’s attention past the living room threshold, to the base of the stairs where a bunch of books were scattered all over the floorboards and stairsteps. In the middle of it all was a small inky black body comically splayed at the bottom step. 

“Ow…” Bendy’s voice was muffled by the ground that his face was currently smushed against. 

Norman coughed again, hiding a laugh this time instead of clearing his throat. 

“Goodness gracious kid, are you alright?” 

Sammy didn’t miss how suddenly light Norman’s tone was. Bendy lifted his head up to nod, causing one of the books that became a hat to slide off. 

Another detail Sammy didn’t miss was how the clattering sound of Bendy and the books falling only lasted those short last steps. He never heard Bendy coming down the old stairs in the first place. He must’ve been deliberately quiet, meaning he could’ve been within earshot for who knows how long. Did he hear the entire argument?

“Just how long have you been standing here?” 

Sammy didn’t mean to sound that harsh. Norman shot him a look, having also probably noticed Bendy’s spying, but had wanted to be more subtle about it. Bendy made a squeaking whistle in surprise, tail curling around himself defensively. 

“Sorry- I didn’ mean to!” Bendy sputtered, clearly afraid that Sammy was mad at him.

He wasn’t. He actually didn’t want Bendy to hear that argument with Norman, knowing that it wasn’t the best environment for a kid, demon or not. God, Sammy would never live it down if Bendy ended up hating or being scared of him. They never had enough time to get along when in the studio. Norman only gave Sammy a shrug when he looked back for some help. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He still needed to diffuse this somehow.

Sammy suddenly clapped his hands loudly and stretched his arms wide, letting out an exaggerated groan. 

“Eavesdropping! You?! I _cannot_ believe this!” Sammy complained in an over dramatic manner, winning a little grin on the kid’s face when he realized. He pointed at Norman with an accusing finger. “Norman, you're a _terrible_ influence.”

That got Bendy to snicker. 

“Hey now,” Norman joined in. “Spying isn’t that bad. Spies are cool.”

“Spies are cool!” Bendy agreed eagerly.

Sammy crossed his arms and glared at Norman. The two started to gesture wildly in silent argument until Norman later slumped in mock defeat. Bendy giggled through the entire exchange.

“Spies are cool, but don’t make this a habit,” Norman explained to Bendy. “It could only end up looking for trouble, you got that?” 

"Yeah, yeah," Bendy replied, but seemed to nod genuinely. Sammy glanced over all the books that were stacked in the toon’s hands.

“Now that that’s dealt with, why do you have all of that?”

Bendy hugged the books close, looking more uncertain now. His tail swished behind him anxiously. “I was just wondering.. if Norman was feeling better. And if we’re visiting Henry today...?”

Oh. Was that today? Sammy usually kept track when the others disappeared every other week or so. They would visit more frequently if the studio wasn’t so far. Finding jobs to pay for everything since moving here was pretty awkward.

As if to answer Bendy’s question, Norman actually ended up sneezing into his sleeve, giving a muffled apology. Bendy’s face fell at that, clearly discouraged. 

“I’m not feelin’ as bad anymore, and it’d be nice to give Hen another visit...” Norman rushed to reassure. Their ‘conversation’ was clearly unfinished from the side-eye he gave Sammy just now. “Y’know what? Run back upstairs as I mull over it, and I’ll be sure to letcha know what it’ll be. Sound good?” 

Bendy was still disheartened but gave one more slower nod before making his way back up. The two stayed silent until hearing a quiet conversation start up between Bendy and Grant somewhere upstairs. Norman took a seat with a low sigh. Sammy could feel when those eyes went from the stairs to his back. It was just them again, but they were both too tired to resume the yelling. 

Tense silence came over the old friends, if they could call themselves that anymore. They used to be friends, Sammy thought. They used to bicker but they did confide in each other, didn’t they? Why did everything have to turn out this way? Something had to give. 

The grandfather clock chimed.

“His face was gone.” Sammy blurted out, surprising both him and Norman. He didn’t want to turn around to know how Norman was reacting as he began to recount the nightmares. 

The older man stayed quiet the entire time, from the beginning with entering the abandoned studio to the art department flooding. He didn’t make a sound except a cough when Sammy started describing Henry’s missing face for longer than he needed to, getting sucked into the details. Like how the ink was like someone had taken a pen and deliberately circled over the face, over and over, hundreds of times until it was completely obscured. The way it stared at Sammy, regardless of the lack of eyes, and made him feel like he was being judged quietly, and pitifully. How it dripped like it was congealed, and made Sammy feel like he was going to be sick- 

Sammy also began to recall nightmares from even before that. Of being in that studio, but trapped in a senseless maze of doors and jeering cut outs. The wailing, desperate pleads of the reanimated. Of dying, over and over to the demon. Watching Henry ‘die’ over and over, sometimes by his own hands. 

He didn’t share the one dream where he was actually killed by Henry himself, a single swipe of a golden scythe to his disfigured face. Nor did he share the few nightmares of killing Norman with that blood and ink on his hands. 

Sammy started to feel ashamed and selfish now that he laid all of this out on the other but he couldn’t stop it once he started. He was so focused on himself just now that it probably seemed like he didn’t care about Norman’s own traumas. Everyone in this house had their own nightmares. 

In the next moment after Sammy trailed off, Norman spoke up. 

“While I was frustrated for the past few months too, that doesn’t justify the way I’ve been treating you.” 

Sammy snorted by accident. “Yeah, it kinda sucked.” 

“What, are you going to tell me that you would’ve actually listened to me if I tried?” Norman called out. 

“I-... No. Probably not,” Sammy admitted. 

Norman laughed at that, but in a defeated, winded way. Sammy doesn’t see the way his face became a little sad as the old projectionist considered his next words. He was still posed to leave at the living room threshold, but the moment still felt too delicate to move. 

“I’m sorry. I said it before, but I mean it, Sam.”

Sammy took a steady breath but stayed quiet. 

“You were with Henry longer than any of us were,” Norman started. “My time with him all those years ago don’t count so much, and the kid just wanted to connect with his old man more than anything and… 

Well, I understand, and I also don’t. Your… Feelings… They’re your own, in your own head and heart.” 

Sammy looked back at Norman now, letting the words sink in. Norman had taken off his glasses and looked off as he continued in a quiet, earnest tone. “You also have to understand, it can’t keep goin’ like this. You need to help something change here, help yourself somehow. I just wish it didn’t have to be because of me finally breaking the camel’s back.”

Norman leaned back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. Without his glasses, nothing obscured the crinkling at the corner of his eyes, his black coiled hair greying at the sides. He wasn’t jeering anymore either. Just felt old, and tired. They all were. 

That’s why, Sammy would later excuse, why he finally gave in. 

He couldn’t hate Henry. He really did miss him. 

“I’ll... I will go. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn.”

Norman looked almost like a wise, kind old man if it weren’t for his lip curling up at Sammy’s terrible attempt at an apology. 

“You really shouldn’t have.” 

“Norman...” Sammy warned once he heard the lilt in the other’s voice.

“You were actually pretty terrible, really.”

“Norman, please.”

“I should warn Hen about that attitude of yours. It’s real unattractive y’know, among other things.”

“Polk, I swear to God!”

Norman just laughed at Sammy when his face started to redden. He pushed his glasses back up on his face and started to get up from the couch. 

“I’ll go tell Bendy and Grant that you’re goin’. You should clean yourself up meanwhile.” 

Sammy watched Norman go without waiting for a response, making his way up the steps carefully, and leaving Sammy alone in the living room with the forgotten tea and ticking grandfather clock. He ran a hand over his stressed face, aware he looked terrible, but only now feeling the stubble he neglected and the bags under his eyes. 

He couldn’t stop thinking over Norman’s words as he looked at the picture frame on the mantel. 

His feelings were his own, huh?

... And he wasn’t unattractive. Piss off, Polk. 

  
  


Sammy was getting sick of this door.

He’d been through this hundreds of times while working as the studio’s music director and seeing it in his nightmares ever since Henry shut it in his face. The insistent feeling of ‘I shouldn’t do this’ started to grab at him again but he wasn’t allowed to turn back now. Not when turning back means facing Norman and Bendy literally sitting there in the borrowed Ford, making sure that he didn’t chicken out. He knew this because he could hear Bendy making clucking noises behind him. 

This felt… incredibly silly. Does he knock? Or just open it? If it was locked, that would be too embarrassing. Sammy had never been too shy to barge into rooms before either, especially when he needed to do something. 

Bendy was still making chicken noises. 

With an aggravated sigh, Sammy gave the door two solid bumps and practically threw it open. The creaking was as terrible as always. He leaned back on the door to shut it before he had any more second thoughts on being here. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he could hear Bendy and Norman muffled behind the wood. At least he knew he wasn’t cut off from the outside. The door was just a normal door. 

He still hated it though. 

“Alright-” Sammy caught himself saying before shaking his head. 

Inside the studio was… not as dark as he thought it’d be. It was still very dim in comparison to the clear sunny day he just came from so he had to squint and blink until his eyes adjusted. He started making his way down the first corridor as he did, clutching the cardigan folded over his arm. 

The sound of a string pulled taut startled Sammy once he reached the end of the corridor. He cursed under his breath as he tried to calm his spiked heart rate. Peeking from around the corner was a cut out, staring at him with ringed eyes, scrutinizing. 

“Hi,” Sammy greeted in a clipped tone. 

Of course the cut out didn’t reply back. Sammy wasn’t looking to converse with cardboard anyway. He did need it to get out of the way so he could get in. Squeezing past it was an option, but Sammy didn’t really want to go near the thing, no offence. 

Quick as it appeared, the cut out flicked back out of view; whatever assessment or thought it had Sammy hoped to be in the positive. Still, he veered as far away as he could from any ink droplets and puddles. Even if Henry was the one connected rather than Joey, Sammy couldn’t trust the machine for the life of him. 

Once his eyes adjusted, Sammy realized once again that something was off. The inside of the studio was different. It seemed… smaller. Less doors and less hallways. The frivolous “Joey Drew Studio” signage that usually took up the entire right wall was gone, replaced by some simpler reels on display. That projector was still lopsided, but its clicking wasn’t the only noise this time. Sammy could faintly hear an early rendition of the Bendy theme playing through a speaker sitting beside the projector. It felt like he was back in the Studio from 1925. This was a weird mix of uncanniness and nostalgia. 

There was still paper _everywhere_. Either Henry hadn’t felt obligated to clean anything up, or all animators were just this damn messy. Now that Sammy thought about it, Henry didn’t seem like he was a very neat and tidy sort of person to be honest. 

Sammy walked up to the long desk that took up the middle of the entrance hall. He picked up one of the scrap pieces of paper lying dangerously close to the table’s edge, expecting old concept art or movement studies (things he would hear Norman talk about in the past because that guy had more know-how about animation than Sammy was ever interested in). He was surprised when he recognized that it was more recent. It was a lightly sketched drawing of the Projectionist, of all things. Parts here and there were circled, but there weren’t any words if these were notes or studies. Another scrap paper beside it was yet another Projectionist doodle, but it was like it had been drawn by a child.

Oh. These were from Bendy and Norman’s visits.

A few more papers had a few doodles of Bendy, Norman, other cartoon characters or cartoon versions of people. Some he recognized were supposed to be him when he was an inky mess. Most seemed obviously drawn by Henry, others obviously drawn by Bendy. Or at least, Sammy assumed they were. There were maybe two or three pieces that were drawn even worse. There was a reason Norman only did the technical work for animations. 

There was a puddle by the table, ruining a couple papers that seemed to land in an unfortunate fate. Sammy would’ve ignored this if he didn’t recognize that one of the papers half drenched in black was a sketch of him. Not a cartoony one either, or the Prophet. Just him, with his tight ponytail, borrowing Henry’s cardigan from when he got his body back. Him, with his face blotted out from the ink seeping into the paper. It was unsettling. 

Focus, Sammy. Stop getting distracted. 

The art department. He had to check the art department. Sammy placed the papers he collected into a neat pile on the desk before glancing at the left side of the room. 

Sammy was weirdly relieved to see that the hallway leading to the department was lit and lacked any flooding. It wasn’t super bright, maybe just as dim as the rest of the studio, but it wasn’t a pitch emptiness that would stretch on into the room in his nightmare. 

The papers still scattered about stopped Sammy from going just yet.

One distraction. Just to calm his nerves. 

Three organized stacks of paper later, Sammy decided he needed to stop being so obviously anxious. The little chore helped calm him down at least. He marched down the left hallway with certain steps, needing to find Henry as soon as he could and get this over with. He really did want to see him again. Finally clear things up, whatever those things were. 

Also, being alone in this place any longer will eventually start to get to him. Why did Bendy stay behind again? Because he and Henry were to have “a moment”? What the hell type of reason was that?

He got cut short at the entrance to the art department by another twang of string. The cutout stood in the centre of the doorway, holding up that cryptic sign again about wandering around. Sammy felt annoyed at this. He wasn’t wandering, he was trying to find someone. 

“Let me through,” he demanded.

It didn’t respond. 

He could see a bit into the room it was denying him, and saw that it was empty. No desks, no chairs, but there were some planks lying about and a few paint buckets. Like if it was under construction. Henry didn’t seem like he was in there. 

“Where is Henry?” Sammy tried to ask instead. 

To his right now, back down the hallway he came, was another twang. Another cutout, or maybe the same cutout, was in the entrance hall. The one blocking the art department had disappeared. 

Sammy ran a hand over his hair and threw his head back with an irritated groan. Was he really gonna do this? Play tag with the Ink Machine? He better be led to Henry or he was gonna have a fit. 

The game had Sammy listening in to any audio cues that the cutout had moved, going through the hallway on the right of the entrance hall instead. It made more noises when he stopped to look at the strangely smaller version of the ink machine in one of the rooms and ushered him into what he remembered was the breakroom. He stopped at the middle of the creaky staircase and gawked. 

Unlike the rest of the studio, this area still looked structurally the same as they had left it, but there was an addition of couches, a phonograph, and books scattered with the ever present paper. 

None of that was what stopped him. 

His wide green eyes traced along the countless veins of ink that seemed to seep through the entire room. Wisps and swirls ran across the floorboards, creeped up walls, and curled around the papers and books. It was similar to that aura of the Ink Demon, and yet it was oh so different. It didn’t writhe like those malevolent tendrils, seeking for victims on behalf of the demon. It didn’t feel invasive and threatening. 

Instead, the wisps seemed to pulse quietly. Not hissing, but rather just breathing. Smooth. Like someone sleeping. Every other breath sent a flow of gold overtaking the black in smooth transition. 

Sammy shifted to get a closer look, causing the old wood to creak under his weight. The ink veins slowly retracted away, back to an epicentre he now recognized to be lying on one of the couches. 

Henry.

Sammy ended up reaching the bottom of the stairs a little clumsier than he’d like and paused behind the couch. Here he was again, waiting, as Henry faced away from him in silence. Just like in his nightmare. 

But this was real now. He wasn’t going to be ignored. And Henry wasn’t going to have a missing face. 

Sammy gave it three seconds before slapping a hand over the couch arm and getting into the other’s face.

“Henry, what the hell?!”

There wasn’t a real way to describe the noise Henry made in response to getting startled. It was some sort of exclamation and sputtering mess as the poor guy nearly fell from the couch like a ragdoll. Henry caught himself and adjusted his glasses to look back at Sammy in utter disbelief.

“S.. Sammy?”

Sammy didn’t bother a response, too busy staring at Henry’s face. He looked exactly the same as before. Same faded grey-brown hair, same soft, tired look, aged from stress. His eyes were still black rather than the brown in those old photographs. And those black eyes seemed to stare back at his green just the same, as if both men weren’t believing that the other was there in front of them just yet. 

Henry broke eye contact first.

“Is that my sweater?” 

Sammy almost forgot about the cardigan folded in his arms and passed it over to Henry. 

“I tried to clean it, but you know how ink stains are.”

Henry exhaled a short laugh at that, nodding as he started putting the cardigan back on regardless. He looked Sammy up and down before keeping up the amiable tone. 

“You look good.”

“Of course, I.. Thank you.” 

Sammy ran his hand over his hair self-consciously. He did try to clean himself up before coming here. He and the others worked on getting new clothes over the past few months so as to not raid Henry’s closet, especially since not everything would fit anyway. He was currently wearing a shirt not too different to something he used to wear to work, but had thrown on a denim coat when it was too windy out. 

The ink veins never came back as Henry seemed to sit there expectantly. Sammy looked around at the mess of a room and listened to the turned down, familiar tune coming from the phonograph. That was one of his pieces. Something he remembered making in his free time when he felt a little inspired, not something he had to make under a deadline. There were books all marked with scraps of paper at different times, as if Henry had started and stopped reading each one right after the other. 

“So, what do you even do nowadays?”

“Draw. Read. Sleep, I guess.” Henry tapped his leg in thought. “Or, something close to sleep. I think I just zone out very well to be honest.”

“Sounds pretty terrible.”

“Oh, it is. I meant to retire anyway but,” Henry trailed off, waving his arm vaguely. 

Sammy snorted quietly, trying not to think too hard about the situation. “World’s worst retirement home.”

That actually got Henry to laugh a bit more in agreement. 

"Do you still play?" Henry asked. 

"Oh, yes, actually." Sammy thought back to him and Jack's extra practice sessions where they had to brush up on their music playing. "Years without proper hands that didn't melt or get cut by strings had us severely out of practice, but we're managing. We actually have a couple gigs at some small restaurants. We're basically starting small, again."

Sammy continued to explain the different places they've played at already, and the fact that Bendy had been whining recently about wanting to learn how to play something too. He admitted that he didn't want to teach Bendy in case the kid broke his banjo. Henry watched as he waved his arms around as he spoke. 

"I'd love to hear you two play, if-... if you're planning on visiting again, anyway."

The little hesitation in that voice wasn't missed. Henry thought Sammy might not actually come back after this. 

"I'll visit again. I'll bring Jack, and maybe you'll make sure Bendy doesn't break something."

The conversation was light, and painfully careful. It seemed obvious that both of them were out of material for small talk and an awkward tension threatened to settle between them. Sammy should get to the point and apologize. 

“I’m sorry for lying,” Henry got to it first. 

“I-I apologize too,” Sammy stammered. Henry looked a little taken back. He didn’t know how to elaborate what he was exactly sorry for. For refusing to visit? For cursing at him behind his back? 

“I understand why you did it. I hated it, but I couldn’t hate you. Trust me, I tried.” Sammy wasn’t sure if it made sense to Henry, but the other smiled warmly in response. Henry pressed himself to the side of the couch and patted the space to his right to prompt Sammy to sit beside him. Sammy obliged, careful not to bump into Henry. “I never thanked you either, for helping everyone, and helping me.”

“But here you are, right? Thank you too, Sammy.” 

It felt like a weight was being lifted. Like they could finally go back to being honest, enjoying each other’s presence. The sound of creaking wood, possibly settling floorboards, seemed to properly distract Henry before he turned to explain to Sammy when he noticed the confused expression.

“I have to be careful if someone enters the studio. In case they get trapped or hurt in here.” Henry gestured to a cutout spying from the stairs. “Usually I- we?- lock the door just in case, but sometimes my attention lapses, or I leave it open for Bendy’s visits. The machine tries to spook intruders away for me instead of trapping them inside at least, but it’s still a bit weird for me.” 

Sammy nodded in understanding at that. He thought back to the simpler architecture that the studio seemed to take, probably related to that precaution. He still wasn't sure about the miniature ink machine though.

“You’re not going to trap me now, are you?” He joked. 

Henry leaned back, feigning consideration before shaking his head. Sammy grinned when he noticed that little half-smile Henry sometimes got from finding himself funny before covering his mouth. However, Henry’s smile soon dropped away in thought. Some more creaking could be heard now but Henry didn’t pay it any mind. 

"Y’know, I thought you were..." 

"That I wasn't coming back?" 

Henry made a face at that. He looked away with an unreadable expression before muttering a quiet ‘yeah’. He leaned a little closer as he continued.

“But I am happy to see you again-”

Sammy didn’t mean to cut him off, he really didn’t. He just couldn’t stop the instinctual reaction to pull his hand away from Henry once they made contact. Henry’s hand was _freezing_. The fact Henry looked unchanged almost had Sammy forget he wasn’t really human anymore. He looked down at his own hand, realizing what he did, and caught the hurt that flashed on Henry’s face. 

“Wait- Henry, I-”

“No, it’s okay. That’s okay. I understand. It’s been too long anyway-” Henry’s face was neutral again, but he kept his hands suspended now as if unsure. 

“No, you’re- I was just surprised!” Sammy couldn’t have Henry misunderstand him now. He didn’t mean to remind Henry of his inhumanness nor make him feel unwanted. He finally came to visit him and now felt awful. A closing door. If this was the moment he was anticipating, it was a terrible moment. 

Sammy felt his face burn. He remembered the instances where Henry would let him stand too close or keep holding his hand when he was the cold ink creature. What if he just...

"Hang on, let me..."

Sammy began rubbing his hands together, getting a baffled look from Henry. He suddenly cupped his hands firmly over Henry's face, surprising him, and watched his expression flicker from a confusion to realization. Sammy swallowed quietly, waiting for a reaction, and then had to silence an exclamation when Henry eventually leaned into the warmed hands. 

"I-I know how it feels, so I thought you'd maybe appreciate it," Sammy explained. 

Henry only hummed in response, his eyes closing. He lifted a tentative hand and held it over the back of Sammy's left. It was cold, but not completely unpleasant to Sammy. He kept his hands in place, hesitantly running his thumb over the stubble. It was even easier to get lost in someone's face when its held like this. He saw some gold glow in his peripheral, heard another creak, but paid it no mind. 

Eventually Henry opened his eyes halfway and had a deep, considering expression. He still leaned into the touch, kinda trapping Sammy’s hand in fact, but Sammy couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive.

"Are you alright?" Sammy asked. 

Henry averted his eyes before putting on a little half-smile. 

"I thought maybe I should trap you in here after all.” He deadpanned. 

“Henry!” Sammy laughed in disbelief. Henry just quietly chuckled as well, still trapping Sammy’s hand. “I’ll let go now, I swear.”

“Nooo,” Henry lamely whined when Sammy released his face, but they never quite let go. 

Sammy scooted closer with a ‘come here’, giving Henry more area to sap warmth from as the two leaned into the couch. He watched as golden veins flowed over Henry’s sleeves into his hands, covering his own in familiar swirls, pulsing soft like a sleeping breath. 

The sound of a closing door caught Sammy’s attention to the break room stairs, where the door seemed to shut itself with the sound of a string pulled taut. Muffled objections and conversation could be heard soon trailing away. 

Sammy looked back down at his and Henry’s threaded hands. He’d have to leave eventually, and Henry would still be trapped here. They still had a lot to talk about, a lot to heal from. And he still needed to tell him. They had a deal. But for now, let them have this moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took as long as it did, and reads as long as it does, even when I cut out its original ending;  
> Thank you for reading though!

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's a non-canonical ending to TSV called "Neutral End" I wrote a few months ago but decided to visit again to post.  
> Since this is also standalone, I had to rewrite a little to exclude TSV details such as Russel's and Hart's names, among other things. It's all still referenced though, so there's that. 
> 
> I draw more than I write, if you want to find me @ https://maulan-reverie.tumblr.com/ or https://twitter.com/Corruptimles


End file.
